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we grow monsters

she was cute for hanging on
wise eyes buried the bitter
with sort-of smiles, she was
what you might call
a “child” — alone on a bench,
fewer years than fingers
on one hand — and we watched
the curiosity, and we measured
the vastness, this cavity of heartache,
the peppered endurance of raw life.
it wasn’t without regret, of course.
every second passing
we considered this an abomination
“and we said so, too!”
every second passing we grew,
monsters on the twisted vine.